Wish
On a Sunday evening t'will be
After a sweet sermon from the priest
And my ageing buttocks glued to no wooden chair
Oh my lovely meal on the table
The last thing to graze my intestines
And some swigs of Hollandia Yoghurt
Then a leaning back
Chanting in the Holy Spirit
And Closing my eyes to open no more.
No bullet driven through my heart
Neither a concussion from an accident
Respite of poison I would rather not
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